You Dress Up for Armageddon
by Lila2
Summary: Four Times Chuck Kissed Serena and Didn't Mean It and One Time He Did


**Title: **"You Dress Up for Armageddon"

**Author:** Lila

**Rating: **PG-13

**Character/Pairing: **Chuck, Serena

**Spoiler: **"The Blair Bitch Project"

**Length: **one-shot

**Summary: **Four Times Chuck Kissed Serena and Didn't Mean It and One Time He Did

**Disclaimer: **Don't own them, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs.

**Author's Note: **Just a little idea that popped into my head while watching the latest episode. Title and breakpoints courtesy of The Hives. Enjoy.

* * *

**I. Hey, believe me – I've seen your sort before.**

Before you fell too hard and too deep for Blair Waldorf, you had a thing for blondes.

Your mother was blonde, and in your earliest memory she's playing with a mane of long, thick, blonde hair, pulling it up and letting it fall, preparing for a night out with your father. You watch her through the mirror, noting the brittle smile and fragile gaze in her eyes, and you're five-years-old and already know how it goes, how the evening will end.

At midnight she crawls in bed beside you and holds you close, her tears wetting the thin cotton of your pajamas. You father has a meeting, or a surprise trip, or a new underage girlfriend, although you don't learn that fact until you're closer to twelve.

Your mother was old money before your father made her a Bass, and she lulls you both to sleep with of Chanel on her skin and expensive champagne on her breath.

Your mother was a model before your father made her a Bass, and her limbs are long and slender and fluid as they wrap around you, filling you with soft and warm and the only thing you know as home.

Your mother was happy before your father made her a Bass and when she wishes you sweet dreams you actually believe they can come true.

--

There's a single strand of blonde hair on your pillow when you wake in the morning, and you watch it catch in the sunlight peeping between curtains an unknown maid with an unknown face has thoughtfully drawn. You learn your lesson quickly, early, before you really understand what it means, and when you sit down to breakfast with your glassy-eyed mother, she tells you that all that glitters isn't gold.

Her fingers shake around yours when she deposits you at the playground between the C-B/St. J's Lower Schools, and when she makes small talk with Anne Archibald, her laugh is higher and twitchier than you remember.

You look desperately for Nate, because you have to get away, but he's off somewhere staring at his shoes or the clouds or the random space around his head. You wander off to look for him and your mother is too distracted to notice, and she laughs at another of Anne's bad jokes about going slumming by bringing their own children to school.

You don't find Nate but you do find blonde hair, half up and half down, and a red ribbon trailing towards the ground. You pick it up, like your mother taught you to do, and politely tell the blonde girl that you have her ribbon.

She turns to face you and she smells flowery and sweet.

She holds out a hand for her ribbon and she's skinny and all legs and about two inches taller than you.

She smiles when your fingers brush as you pass the ribbon to her, and it's wide and bright and beautiful; you ignore that she's missing her two front teeth.

You can't stop yourself when she laughs, real and honest and filled with things you don't remember, and you push up on your tip toes, scuffing the toes of your new loafers, and press a gentle kiss to her wide mouth.

It lasts a second, probably less, but she doesn't scream, doesn't cry, just pushes you away with a laugh to run across the playground to Blair, the red ribbon trailing in her wake. She's bigger than you, because she's a girl and you're a boy and you're both five-years-old, and you're sitting flat on your butt when Nate pulls his head out of his long enough to find you.

He holds out a hand and helps you up and you accept it blindly because you can't lift your eyes from the blonde hair glittering in the sunlight across the playground.

--

**II. There's a hole in my heart and it's bleeding.**

You're the one who finds her: eyes closed, hands folded, hair falling in a golden curtain across the pillow.

There are pills and there's brandy and when you rest your head on your mother's chest there isn't a steady beat beneath your ear. You learn your lesson well because there's nothing glittering anymore.

There's a funeral you barely remember, a visit to the cemetery you want to forget, and too many people swarming the penthouse in the aftermath.

Nate's with you most of the time, quiet and confused but at your side because it's what he's supposed to do.

Blair comes by and says she's sorry and you have a vague memory of dark curls and polished mary-janes, but you don't really look at her and she only looks at Nate and none of it matters to you anyway. Serena shows up with Lily and stepfather #2 and a dark ribbon restraining the golden curtain falling down her back.

She goes with you when you have to get away, your father's eyes already narrowing and piercing as you escape to the balcony and away from people you don't really know and want to talk to even less.

It's cloudy and cool but the sun still finds a way to peek through the clouds and turn her hair to spun gold. You suck in a breath, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes, and it's the first time you've cried since you realized your mother had been absent from your life for years but is truly gone for good.

You wipe angrily at the tears because you're a Bass and you're no baby, and she looks away to pretend she doesn't see. Serena doesn't say a word and you're grateful, because talking too much is all anyone's done since the story broke, and she sits with you while it gets darker and colder and the light disappears from the sky.

"I really am sorry," she says when it's too dark, too cold, too empty to stay outside any longer.

You nod, because you aren't ready for words, and reach up to press a gentle kiss to her cheek, the way you remember your mother did when saying goodbye to her friends. She doesn't push you this time, but her cheeks turn bright pink and she rushes back to the penthouse before you can say thank you.

She's long gone when you're getting ready for bed and find three blonde hairs clinging to the fine wool of your jacket. You wrap them in a handkerchief, a bass dutifully embroidered in one corner, and bury them in the bottom of your sock drawer.

Five years later, when you dig them out to remember her, they still glitter in the sunlight.

--

**III. Now you got their attention. You know, you gotta keep them believing.**

Blair and Nate are making googly eyes at each other and it makes you nauseous.

The Modern has great desserts, but aren't hungry and worse, you're bored and tired of the company. It's Blair's birthday and she's fifteen and been kissed, and next to you Serena's fidgeting and struggling not to roll her eyes as Nate spoons a forkful of cake into Blair's perfectly lined mouth. You know she'll puke it up later, but she smiles and swallows because nothing is more important than keeping up appearances.

You don't struggle to keep from rolling your eyes and under the table Serena kicks your shin and it hurts. You wince, because you love what heels do to girls' legs but aren't sure they're worth the collateral damage. "Be nice," Serena hisses; you don't know why she bothers, because Blair and Nate don't appear aware that anyone exists besides each other.

"I'm bored," you whine, and wince again when the dynamic duo lean in for a kiss. "I have better things to do."

"Like what?" she whispers but her eyes harden as B & N continue to put on a show. "You're Nate's best friend and Blair's mine. Where else should we be?"

There's something hard, tight in her expression, and you can't decide if it's watching a couple make out or watching _this _couple make out. You're not friends, never have been really, but something about the way the dim light is catching in her hair makes you remember that afternoon on the balcony and you decide to be real person for once. And really, you're not sure how much longer you can stomach the Nate and Blair show, so you nudge her. "Wanna get out of here?"

An eyebrow lifts and she pushes her hair over one shoulder; across the table Nate comes up for air long enough to notice. "What do you have in mind?"

--

Neither of you say much in the cab ride downtown, but your fingers brush a few times when she slips your flask from your hand and drags it to her mouth. She doesn't choke, doesn't gasp as the whiskey slides down her throat and you start to remember that you may not be friends but you've always liked her. When her hair gilds in the florescence of the street lamps, you stop trying to remember and just do.

You take her to Cake Shop because she likes dessert and you like booze and in the back of your mind you can hear Blair whining to Nate about how much Serena enjoys slumming and how much she hates it because she always ruins her shoes. There's a band tonight, something you've heard a million times before and (pathetically) unaware that it isn't 2001 and no one cares about The Strokes anymore.

If Serena notices, she doesn't say a word about it, just downs crappy tequila and picks apart a red velvet cupcake. She's getting drunker and drunker – you both are – and that brittle look in her eyes gets sharper as every minute ticks by. You sip a scotch, or something along those lines, and watch the hipsters in their natural environment. You note the glazed looks in their eyes and weigh the pros and cons of easy access versus possible diseases. You like all your parts just as they are, and turn your attention to keeping Serena on her stool.

She's staring wistfully at a couple making out in the corner, the girl's dark hair melting into the boy's golden-tipped spikes. "Do you believe it's true? That it's better to have loved and lost than never loved at all?"

This time, you restrain yourself from rolling your eyes because she's Serena and she's sort of your friend, but down your scotch – using that term loosely – before answering. "I don't know. I've never been in love. " You've never been that honest with a girl either, but Serena just smiles that loose, fluid smile and brushes your hair back from your face.

"You're sweet," she says and leans closer, so you can smell the Chanel and booze seeping through her pores.

You're not sweet and you're not very nice, but you're always a boy and a Bass, so you reach across the space and press your mouth to hers just because you can. Hers opens immediately and her fingers move from your forehead to tangle in the hair at your nape, and she slips off her stool to press every inch of herself against you.

You're a boy and she's a girl and your fingers are creeping under the hem of her dress and she isn't shoving them away, but she tastes sad on your tongue and you don't like the flavor.

You push her away, but she doesn't slap you, doesn't push you back, doesn't try to run away. She stands there shaking slightly, teetering on her heels while tears pool in the corners of her eyes. "I think I'm in love with Nate," she whispers.

You buy her a slice of pizza and sit on the curb on Delancey to watch the streetlights pull shades of tarnished gold from her hair. You're glad you've never been in love.

--

**IV. I hear you're one in a million. Tell me more.**

You don't hate Nate but you don't like him most of the time. It's not his fault, really, that your father likes him more than he likes you; or that Dartmouth wants _him_ and Yale wants your father's money; or that Serena left because she decided to love Blair more than she loved him.

You don't hate him but sometimes you can't stand the sight of him, and most of the time you wish you were anything but unbearably jealous of him because you both have everything you could ever want but when he sits down at the breakfast table the person sitting across from him doesn't think it would be better if he had nothing.

You don't hate him but that doesn't stop you from sometimes wanting to be him.

Serena comes back and you're not really interested until you watch her walk away from Nate. You're not supposed to watch, but it's Nate and Serena and you know from experience that when they're together it's best not to look away. It's as good as last time – you can't help but enjoy the way Nate's face breaks as Serena turns her back on him, blonde hair trailing behind her in the sunlight.

You hear through the grapevine that she's different now, grown up or evolved or something along those lines, and that she's determined to stick to the bad-girl-gone-good routine she brought with her from Connecticut. You sit back and watch because you know Serena and you know how these things work and there are few things you like more than watching reformed sluts fall off their pedestals.

--

She's drinking when you find her, halfway to drunk, and you grin because she's falling faster than you'd predicted and there's no one to catch her. You take her to the kitchen and make her a sandwich and she moans like she did that night in the Campbell Apartment when you watched Nate make her come.

You remember that night, a moment in time you saw but weren't supposed to see, when she sank into Nate's lap and oblivion and the look in her eyes was anything but fragile or brittle. You couldn't remember the last time you'd seen her look so alive, or such a blissful smile on her face, because the last time you'd been with her with her mouth pressed up against yours , she'd been crying through cloud of cigarette smoke on Rivington.

Nate had pressed you for details the next morning and you'd shrugged it off as Nate worrying on Blair's behalf, but you know you were wrong. Nate is always predictably Nate, and he even does jealousy half ass. You're a Bass and you do everything full-force, and your eyes take in the scenery. You're in a kitchen your father owns and surrounded by everything it means to be a Bass and Nate's no where in sight.

Serena's eyes are glazed with pleasure and the light is turning her hair to spun gold the way it did that night in Grand Central and you lean in because it's your moment.

She pushes you away and you try again, and again, because you need this – you _need_ this – and you barely notice when she breaks through with a heavy shove to your chest. You were wrong. You were all wrong. She's not the girl she used to be.

When she breaks free, the look in her eyes is pulsing and alive but not in the way you wanted. You let her go and watch how the light turns her hair into a river of gold as she flees. She _is_ different. She doesn't fall of her pedestal – she climbs.

When you get ready for bed you find three blonde hairs clinging to your shirt. You don't save them.

--

**V. You feel tortured and filled with regret.**

Her fall takes longer than anyone expected, and no one's more surprised than yourself when she chooses you to catch her.

"I don't know what to do," she whispers between sips of scotch. "I've worked so hard and now she's back…"

She trails off and stares mournfully into her drink. You don't know what to say to her. You're not friends, have never been friends, not really, and now you're closer to enemies than anything else. You don't know how to handle this new Serena, the one who can't be plied with booze or Nate, the Serena who says what she means and means what she says and is more like the girl who ignored your tears when your mom died than the girl you kissed in a dive bar on the Lower East Side.

"I'll help you," you say before you can think the words through, because you don't like the sad look in her eyes or the defeated expression on her face. You feel oddly protective of her, this girl who just ruined your life but can't seem to stop sharing it. You like her mother; you like her brother; you like her best friend; and you can admit, when she isn't staring down her nose at you, you kind of like her too. Worse, you miss her - - either version of her – you miss having her in your life. And while you're being this honest with yourself, you can even admit (kind of) that you might like version 2.0 more. She's stronger, more capable, and she's a better friend to Blair than you've ever been to Nate. You're in the same position, the Van der Woodsen-Basses, and you can't let your other half fall.

Her head snaps up at your declaration and she eyes you warily, fingers trembling slightly around her glass. "You don't like me, Chuck."

You shrug, because it isn't really the truth, but she doesn't have to know that. "I hate Georgina more." You smile, a grin to match the sharks swimming through the cotton of your sweater, but there's some honesty there too. You like this loyalty game; you like having someone beside yourself to fight for.

You seal your promise with a kiss because you're a boy and she's a girl and you want to kiss the new Serena just once.

It's over before it even starts, while it's still happening, and Serena is pulling away like she's just found out you have a flesh-eating disease, furiously rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes are wild, half-hidden behind her mane of hair, and you can see the anger burning between strands of gold.

"Don't worry," you say, wrapping your fingers around the fist she's forming. "I won't tell Brooklyn."

She narrows her eyes. "Maybe I'll tell Blair."

Her fingers tremble under yours and you smile, a way you rarely smile, to let her know that you're telling the truth. "Just a friendly kiss between siblings."

Her fist drops and the hint of grin parts her lips. "Last I checked, brothers don't kiss their sisters with tongue."

You fall back against the couch, shrug your shoulders. "I'm a Bass – it's the only way I know how."

She falls back beside you, pushes that glorious hair off her face so you can see the fear in her eyes, the worry that her entire world is going to come crashing down around her – again. "Chuck, about Georgina…"

You cut her off, stop her in mid-sentence, because she doesn't have to finish her thought for you to share yours. "I'll take care of Georgina."

"Why?" she asks after a long moment, and her voice is a little higher-pitched, a note of confusion weaving through it.

You lean towards her and rake your fingers through that hair, drawing her face to yours to press a gentle kiss against the heated skin of her forehead. When you pull back there isn't a hint of fear, of disgust, even wariness in her eyes, and you think this can maybe work. "Because we're family," you say and you mean it, you really mean it, the way you've meant few things in your life. "And families take care of each other."

* * *

Writers live for feedback – please leave some if you have the time.


End file.
